


Maketh the Man

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson helps Sherlock get ready for his official return.</p><p>Another short piece for the Sherlock minibang challenge, conceived with Trisha (kookyfan). There are no spoilers here as such but this was written with the Season 3 trailers in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maketh the Man

“It’s just as well it wasn’t the big frying pan on the stove. I could have – well.”

“Killed me again?” said Sherlock. He made a complaining noise as she dabbed ineffectually at the lump on his head, which had nearly stopped bleeding. His hair was dirty, dulled, he hadn’t been washing, wherever he’d been.

“It’s cast-iron, that one,” he said. “Too heavy for you to swing effectively. No sharp edges. I might have been better off.” He twisted sideways a bit to look up at her. “Unless you bought a new one, of course.” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Of course not,” Mrs Hudson said. “You know perfectly well, Sherlock Holmes, that that particular pan was a wedding present and I had it shipped all the way from America when I came home.”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, pleased, bending his head back and letting her clean it.

“And at least there wasn’t hot oil in it. Dear me, this is a bit nasty. Well, you deserved it, sneaking up on me in the dark like that. Whatever were you thinking– ”

“That I didn’t want anyone to see me,” said Sherlock. He shifted his shoulders, impatiently. “No-one else knows I’m back.”

“Oh,” she said. That was – unexpected. She went to the sink, pretending to rinse out the cloth, and tried to get a grip on herself. One moment she’d hit a terrifying intruder over the head with her second best frying pan as hard as she could, and the next she’d got a proper look at him and realized that it was Sherlock, warm flesh and blood and right at this moment in her kitchen, sitting at the table. She didn’t know whether to hit him again or hug him. Her heart hurt, for him, for whatever he’d been doing – he looked like a tramp, in filthy ripped jeans and a dirty sweatshirt, or hoodie, that was what they were called now, stained even more now with blood.

“I’m sorry that I – that I startled you,” said Sherlock.

She turned to meet his eyes. He was really there: he hadn’t evaporated in the minute she’d turned her back on him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “I never thought – “ and she found that she couldn’t go on. Sherlock’s chair scraped back, and he stood up, uncertain, and she took a step forward and hugged him, fiercely. After a moment his hands came up and held her, awkward. He felt bony and uncomfortable.

She stepped back, wiping at her eyes. Sherlock looked embarrassed, like a teenage boy about to flee in the face of female emotion. Well, he might well be embarrassed, by everything he’d done.

“Look at the state of you,” she said. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“A long story,” said Sherlock. He sat down a little too abruptly, and she frowned at him. “I ended up coming back with nothing, which was not my original intention. Just the clothes on my back. I had to abandon my things somewhere – somewhere I couldn’t, can’t, go back to. I thought you might – that is, I didn’t want to show myself to my brother or – ”

She saw his half-glance upwards. John had moved out six months previously, of course, into his fiancée’s house – what was her name again, Myra?  It didn’t seem like the wisest course to mention this right now.

“You’re nothing but skin and bone. I’m going to cook you something – oh, if I’d known – it’ll have to be bacon and eggs I’m afraid, unless you want me to go out?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I – don’t you want me to explain myself?”

“I want you to eat,” she said, firmly. “And then wash, you smell disgusting, if you didn’t already know. You can tell me while I’m cooking, if you want.” She patted him on the shoulder, a little awkwardly, and turned to the fridge to hunt for eggs. Behind her, she heard Sherlock swallow, shift in his seat. It would be easier if she wasn’t looking at him, she thought.

“On that day, Moriarty had three snipers,” he began, and his story unfolded over the crackle of eggs and the scent of bacon frying.

**

An hour later, Sherlock was fed, clean, and incongruously dressed in one of her larger dressing-gowns, the turquoise one, and nothing else. Mrs Hudson was having a small brandy, a very small one. It was Friday night, after all, and she had had a shock. Sherlock was sitting opposite her on her small sofa, studying the brandy bottle on the coffee table. He sniffed it.

“This is disgusting,” he said.

“It’s for the mince pies, usually.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“Sherlock…” she said. The brandy made her feel bolder. “You have to tell him, you know.”

“Mycroft already knows,” said Sherlock, steady.

“Oh, not your brother, don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. John. He’s not living here any more, did you know that?”

“Maybe I will have some brandy,” said Sherlock. He let out a breath. “Yes, I did know that. He’s in Earl’s Court, living with Mary Morstan.”

“Mary, yes, I wasn’t sure I had her name right. That’s good, I mean, she’s very nice, he seemed settled last time I saw him – not that he doesn’t still miss you, of course, and you should have seen him after you – he was in a state for a bit there, we were all worried.” She stopped herself. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s all a bit of muddle, isn’t it? If you’re back and John’s getting – “

“Getting married,” said Sherlock. His tone was carefully neutral. “You know John and I were never a couple. It was only a matter of time before he met someone.”

“Mmm,” she said. She had her own thoughts on that matter, but it seemed best to keep them to herself.

Sherlock hesitated. “I know I have to see him,” he said. “It’s just – I thought. I booked a table at the Grill Room in the Savoy for tomorrow night. I thought perhaps a public setting – but somewhere discreet… I was rather hoping you might be able to invite him – them if necessary – invent a special occasion. He’s free tomorrow night, I checked.”

“Oh Sherlock,” she said. A public setting? Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if John thumped him, nor would it be undeserved.

“Please.”

“Well. I suppose I could say it’s my birthday do. It is next week.”

“I know,” said Sherlock. He smiled at her, tired. “And I swear I will buy you a present this year, if you’ll do this one thing…”

She raised her eyes to the heavens. One thing indeed.

Sherlock fidgeted a little, self-consciously, then he gestured at the dressing-gown. “I’ve also got, umm, nothing to wear. And I need to see Mycroft tomorrow, too, as well as telling – seeing John. I wondered if my old suits…”

“Oxfam, a few weeks after you…we weren’t to know, were we?”

“No, no,” said Sherlock. Then he glanced up, one eyebrow lifting. “You gave them to a charity shop, really? Thousands of pounds of tailoring?”

“It was a very high class charity shop. Hampstead. Near my sister. Oh, I do feel bad though, Sherlock. Surely your brother could have – “

Sherlock sighed. “It’s irrelevant now.” He frowned down at himself. “It shouldn’t matter, but I would like…If I show up like this, Mycroft will…” He looked up at her, with a flash of vulnerability.

“There’s nothing wrong in wanting to look your best for your – in delicate situations.” She finished the brandy. “A nice new suit, that’s what you need. I could go into town first thing tomorrow, with your measurements.” She wondered if Sherlock might disappear again, if she did.

“Ready-to-wear,” said Sherlock, with distaste. “It won’t fit.”

She pursed her mouth and eyed him speculatively. “I’ve got my Singer. There might be time to make a few adjustments. I used to make all my own clothes, you know, back in the day.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, which was surprisingly polite, but his face expressed a certain amount of skepticism. Then it changed.

“I don’t have any money,” he said. “To hand, I mean. I’ll be able to pay you back, once I’ve sorted out my official return with Mycroft. I could” – his face twisted into an endearingly pained expression – “I could ask him for money.”

It was tempting to take him up on this, just to witness his horror, but she was feeling charitable. “Oh, not to worry. I can lend it to you.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, visibly relieved. “I’ll write down some names for you, in the order you should visit them. Measurements – “ he looked doubtful – “it’s possible they aren’t precisely the same as when I last – “

“We’ll sort that out tomorrow. First I’d better give John a call.” She heaved herself up, wincing at a twinge from her hip. “And you should sleep, Sherlock, after all that. I don’t know if you’d want the beds upstairs, the flat hasn’t been aired since John moved out, I’m afraid – I have been meaning to let it but I hadn’t quite got round to it, so everything’s at sixes and sevens…”

“I’d prefer – that is, I probably won’t sleep in any case. Your sofa is fine.”

“Hmm. I’ll get you a couple of blankets in that case. And get some rest, Sherlock Holmes, after everything you’ve been up to. You look fit to drop.”

Sherlock half-shrugged. “I have to be ready for tomorrow,” he said, but he swung his legs up onto her sofa obediently and lay down with his head on the end, looking at her upside down. She put out a hand, absent-mindedly, to sleek down his curls, and he closed his eyes at her touch. Her throat felt thick again.

“I’ll go and make that phone call,” she said, and fled.

***

Measuring someone was a very intimate act, and of course more so when they were almost naked in your living room. She’d always thought Sherlock was a fine figure of a man, even if he never seemed to notice it himself, and she wasn’t past it so much that she couldn’t appreciate the sight. Except that Sherlock’s skin, his back and waist bare as she ran a tape measure over them, testified to some of the things he’d clearly left out of the story he’d told: there was a slash across his stomach that had come from a knife, and a fading bruise the size of a grapefruit on one hip, as well as smaller, scattered scars and bruises. She’d seen plenty of injuries back in the day, many of them on herself, she knew what a knife wound looked like. 

Sherlock was quiet as she fussed around him, submitting docilely to being turned around and moved. He was thinking of John, she imagined. What a muddle. John had been surprised, even startled that she’d rung him up out of the blue to invite him to dinner, but he was such a polite young man that he’d concealed it well, and after a murmured conversation in the background, he’d agreed that he and Mary, she always forgot her name, would both come. He’d sounded a little pitying, but then she had laid it on with a trowel about having nothing to do on her birthday. She’d been so nervous, on the phone, Sherlock’s name on the tip of her tongue – she’d had to have another small brandy afterwards, or maybe two. Sherlock hadn’t even tried to conceal his agitation. She’d woken a few times in the night and heard him pacing in the next room, muttering to himself, but she hadn’t interrupted.

“There we go,” she said. “All done.” She stood back, notes in hand, and surveyed him. It was true those filthy jeans that were all he had weren’t really appropriate for a posh restaurant, or how she imagined Mycroft’s office, but they did have a certain – appeal. She checked her watch: 10am already, she’d better get a move on.

“A white shirt,” said Sherlock, firmly. “No tie, of course.”

“Mmm. And the suit? Did you find anything? You’re not to blame me if I can’t find the right thing, you know, I haven’t bought clothes for a man since the 90s.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. His face was drawn, but he managed a half-smile. There was a pile of Hello magazines on the sofa behind him, she’d left them out last night for him to consider. He picked up the top one and flicked through it to a photo-spread.

“Here,” he said. “Ideally a few shades darker, but this is the general idea.”

She studied the picture – some European royal, she couldn’t keep up with all of them, not nearly as good-looking or tall as Sherlock, of course – and nodded, folding the magazine in her hands.

“Take it with you,” said Sherlock. “I’ll – wait here.” He made a face as he said it. She sympathized, must be frustrating to be stuck inside, nothing to do except think about what might happen when he announced his return.

“I’ll be as quick as I can.” She paused, thinking about her kitchen. “No experiments, now.”

Sherlock half-smiled again, though he looked almost sad. Oh dear, she’d put her foot in it. John used to be down in her flat every other day, drinking Earl Grey and complaining about Sherlock’s experiments. She had a vivid flash of memory of John helping her to pack up all Sherlock’s equipment, hand pausing on a test-tube, face grey and stricken, until he had set it down gently and left the room without explanation.

On impulse, she went over and patted Sherlock on the arm. “The keys to upstairs are on the hook in the airing cupboard, if you want them. I’ll be back by lunchtime, and then we’ll sort you out.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and then, after a noticeable pause. “Thank you – thank you for this.”

“Never thought I’d see the day, you saying thank you to someone,” she commented, and Sherlock smiled down at her, almost genuine.

***

Of course, she wasn’t back by lunchtime. Sherlock needed all sorts of things, a toothbrush, and shampoo and hair wax and a razor and underwear and socks and shoes and everything, really, he’d nothing at all, other than a few loose coins, not even ID or a credit card. What would he have done if she hadn’t been in? It didn’t bear thinking about. The shopping was fun, in a way. She had a lovely chat with a nice older man in Jermyn St, at what was apparently Sherlock’s favourite establishment, about the right kind of suit; he hadn’t had anything in, but he’d given the names of three other places. The first two were no good, but the third – the third had a suit that was near-perfect.

“It’ll go well with his eyes, you see,” she said to the charming young man helping her, who was a second year student in law at King’s during the week, he’d told her. “He has an important, er, meeting this evening, I just want it to go well for him.”

“Best of luck to him then,” said the assistant. “It’s a great suit. If I saw my boyfriend in this – “ He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, it’s not really like that,” she said. “Though between you and me, he could do with a bit of luck in love. He needs a nice young man like yourself, someone who’d cheer him up a bit.”

“I’m taken,” said the assistant cheerfully, folding the material carefully and expertly. “Hope he finds someone, though. Can I ring this up for you?”

She fingered the trousers. The sizing wasn’t quite right in the legs, so she’d have to take down the hems, and the shirt she’d selected would hang off him, it would need some work, but it was doable. It wasn’t cheap, though. It seemed silly to worry about it, when Sherlock was back from the dead and had saved her life into the bargain, it was that she’d a hard time managing anyway, without any rent coming in, and who knew if Sherlock would even want to move back, with all those memories? If it hadn’t been for that tax rebate last year….

She sighed, and fished around for her wallet. She’d love a sit-down, now that she was done, but she’d already stopped for a quick bite and Sherlock would be impatient. She’d taxi home: might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, it would be nothing compared to the bill that was just processing.

She smiled again at the assistant – lovely boy, his mother must be so proud of him, making something of himself – as he helped her out the door with her substantial collection of bags, and hailed a taxi.

***

Sherlock looked over the clothes critically and carefully, holding each item up for a proper survey. She sighed loudly enough for him to hear and went to make a cuppa.

“Hours it took me,” she called back from the kitchen. “Tramping around. Bad for my hip and back, you know.”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, scowling. “It’s too short,” he said. “And the shirt’s wide in the back.”

“It’s fixable. I’m having a cup of tea and a bit of a rest, you can wait.”

“But I’m due at Mycroft’s at 4. If I don’t show up – “ He sounded petulant, but she thought he might be nervous. Sherlock always got ruder the more scared he was. Amazing how her brain had kept all of that stuff about him, as though part of her had known she’d be needing the information.

“I’ll put some darts in the back of the shirt and take up the hems,” she said, sitting down and sighing with relief. “It won’t take a jiffy. Stop hovering. Go and shave if you’re in a rush, you’re all over stubble.” Of course, some people liked that look. Maybe not John, though. If Sherlock cared about what John liked.

Sherlock scowled harder, but vanished, and she heard the shower running. She took a couple more mouthfuls of her tea, thinking, and then got up, creakily, to fetch the sewing machine and her stuff.

**

“Ouch,” said Sherlock irritably.

“Stay _still_ ,” she said. “I’ve got to take these pins out, and I can’t do it while you’re wriggling around like that.”

Sherlock tried to crane over his shoulder to look at her. “I have to go.”

“Just a second –  There!” She took out the last pin and studied the back of his shirt. She’d done a good job, if she said so herself. Not like a proper tailor, of course, but under the circumstances.

“Turn round.” She said.

Sherlock did so, managing to convey exasperation and impatience in his movements. She considered him. The trousers were ever so slightly too long, but there wasn’t time to fix them, and they’d do. “Tuck the shirt in,” she said.

 “The car will be here,” he complained. He was practically vibrating in place.

The shirt looked good on him, better than good. With the top button undone, and the jacket over it. She looked him up and down, proud.

“Oh Sherlock,” she said, her eyes threatening to tear up again. “You look like – yourself again.” She stepped forward and smoothed a lock of hair off his forehead. Sherlock let her. As she stepped back, he reached for the cufflinks and started fastening, looking around for his shoes.

“It’s passable,” he said. She knew this was praise. He paused, one shoe off, looking at her as she blinked. “Thank you – thank you for this.”

“You look a treat,” she said, sniffing. “If I were thirty years younger…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and gave her a proper smile, briefly, before going back to looking tense.

“It’ll be OK,” she said, watching him tie the laces. “Don’t expect too much of him at first. He’ll come around.”

“Mycroft, or John?”

“You know perfectly well.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twisted. He stood up, and she passed him his jacket.

“He,” he said, without meeting her eyes, and swallowed. “He has to. I need him.”

She wanted to hug him, but she’d spent twenty minutes ironing that shirt and it looked perfect, so she settled for patting him on the arm.

“You’re welcome back here, if – if you need a place to stay.”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. He took a deep breath, visibly arming himself. The doorbell rang. He caught her eye, and they shared a quick glance.

“Best of luck,” she said.

He nodded, pressed his lips together, and then went to the door, leaving her to follow him out to the hall. He didn’t look back, as a dark-suited man escorted him out of the hall, and into a sleek black car.

“Oh dear,” she said, shutting the front door behind him and staring at its panels. It was at times like this she wished she had a cat to talk to. “And I didn’t even tell him about the moustache. For the best, maybe. Poor boy.” She shook her head, and went to pour herself another little drink.

 


End file.
